


A Scandal In C Minor

by jamsconesandjohnlock



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Band Fic, Busking, Crack, Flirting, Fluff, Fluff and Crack, I don't know where it's going, It's For a Case, John and Sherlock start a band, M/M, Music, Possible smut, Silly, Tickle Fights, it's always for a case, stupid
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-24
Updated: 2014-04-24
Packaged: 2018-01-20 16:18:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1517084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jamsconesandjohnlock/pseuds/jamsconesandjohnlock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"We should start a band John."</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Scandal In C Minor

**Author's Note:**

> Written for my friend Louisa for her 17th birthday, we were going to write this together but never got around to it so I thought I would go for it. Happy Birthday!  
> ((This is was written for a laugh so don't expect it to be perfectly sculpted))

One fine morning John entered 221B after finishing the weekly shop. As he entered the building he bumped into Mycroft who was just leaving "Hello John" Mycroft said in his emotionless voice.  
"Oh Mycroft, hello" John replies  
"So, I've just given my brother little case, I'm sure your help would be appreciated" the man mutters as he pulls his umbrella from the stand, swinging it around on to his shoulder.  
"Erm, great thanks" John mumbles as the eldest Holmes brother disappears out onto the street.  
Wondering what the case was about, John took the stairs two at a time, pushing open the flat's door to reveal Sherlock slumped in his chair. "What did Mycroft want?" John asked Sherlock, as he pulled off his coat, throwing it onto the hook on the back of the door.  
Sherlock didn't reply, rolling his eyes, John turned and made himself a cup of tea. Settling down in his chair opposite Sherlock's he waited for the man to respond. After some moments of silence, Sherlock cleared his throat loudly and stated matter of fact-ly 'John, we should start a band'  
John choked on his tea. 'what?' he spluttered, trying to clear his throat  
"We should start a band John."  
"That's what I thought you said" John said knitting his brows together in a look of pure confusion. "but why the hell would we want to do that? We can't even play any instruments Sherlock."  
"See that, my simple minded friend, is where you are wrong." Sherlock paused for a moment thinking deeply. "I play the violin" gesturing to the beautiful wooden instrument with one of his perfect, slender hands, "and you told me yourself, you can play the clarinet"  
John exhaled loudly "I haven't played that for years, I was never any good anyway." the men sat in silence as the seconds ticked by, John finally broke it. "You still haven't told me why on this good earth we would ever want to form a band in the first place."  
"Isn't it obvious John?" noticing the small man's vacant expression he continued "who does every business man pass on his way to work without giving so much as a second glance?" the vacant look carried on, so did Sherlock: "Oh my God. Don't you people know anything?"  
"Obviously not." John replied, quite obviously angered by his flatmate's remark- of course John's mood passed unnoticed by the sociopath.  
"Buskers, John. Buskers! Aren't I brilliant? No one notices that man with the old, out of tune instrument, begging for money. Do they? No of course they don't because he is of a different class to themselves with their suits and their briefcases. Perfect."  
John was still entirely confused but he thought it best to humour is friend by pretending to understand,  
"Oh of course Sherlock! I could kiss you if I weren't so far into the closet" Sherlock's eyebrow lifted slightly at this a small tinge of red gracing his cheeks "but just to ensure that I fully understand why don't you tell me a bit more about the case which this applies to"  
"Okay then" and Sherlock began to relay the tale which his brother had told him not thirty minutes beforehand. All about the business woman in the fancy suit, Ms Robinson, and how everyday she left the bank in which she worked carrying a simple black briefcase and strutted off towards Hyde Park to take her lunch break. However, when she returned the briefcase was no longer with her and every evening when the caretaker locked up the bank he found a very similar briefcase left at the bank's main entrance completely empty.  
Work had been completely dead for the past week and so John decided that although Sherlock's plan seemed to be the most stupid thing he had ever heard he shrugged and smiled "Alright then Sherlock, I suppose it can't do any harm"  
Days passed and John soon lived to regret the day when he thought no harm could caused. As it turned out, being in a 'band' with Sherlock could be used as capital punishment. It was torture. The consulting detective provided his flatmate with no music and just expected him know what to play, when to start and finish-of course the detective never made mistakes, everything was always John's fault. This led to endless fighting and swearing and shooting of walls, much to the dismay of Mrs Hudson who had been occupying the company of a gentleman friend- nothing attracts a man like the sweet sounds of gunshots from the room above.  
Anyway, time went on and by the end of the third day of 'rehearsals' John was ready to commit a murder. "FOR GOD'S SAKE SHERLOCK" he yelled one afternoon when the detective was being particularly difficult "I AM NOT A MIND READER YOU HAVE TO TELL ME WHAT TO DO, YOU CAN'T EXPECT ME TO GUESS AND GET IT RIGHT" On this occasion Sherlock had been expecting the good doctor to play along to an unwritten composition of Sherlock's and, of course, this was not going well.  
The detective had obviously decided that sulking was the best idea. Gently he put down his violin and stalked off in the direction of his bedroom. John exhaled loudly and slumped down onto the sofa. He ran his hands through his short blonde-grey hair "stupid man" he grumbled to himself, he supposed that he should go and apologise to his friend, but first he would just allow himself some minutes of peace.  
After sitting, enjoying the silence, for about fifteen minutes John stood up with a groan, stretching out his back which gave an unpleasant crack. He wandered off in the direction of Sherlock's room. When he reached the door he knocked gently, not expecting a reply, he waited a few seconds before delicately pushing the door open "Sherlock? " he enquired. He was greeted by the sight of his best friend curled up on his bed, knees tucked up underneath his chin. John wasn't graced with a response so he slowly walked over and sat down next to him. He could tell from his friend's face that Sherlock was listening to him, he wasn't in his mind palace.  
John sighed "Look, I'm sorry for snapping at you, but you must understand that it is hard for me to know what's going on if I can't physically see what I am meant to be playing." Sherlock responded by shifting his position so his head was resting on John's shoulder, he nuzzled into him, groaning lightly.  
John wasn't really sure what was going on. Somehow, somewhere in his subconscious he decided to caress Sherlock's beautiful dark curls with his hand, earning yet another small murmur of comfort from the man. Finally, Sherlock muttered a response, "Sorry" he said groggily "tired," his speech was slightly slurred, obviously he was completely shattered "try again, tomorrow" with this he sleepily launched himself over the doctor, trapping him with his long limbs, pushing him back so they were both laying flat on Sherlock's bed.  
John was taken by surprise at this display of affection, not that he minded at all, his hand still tangled in Sherlock's soft hair the sound of the detective's breathing getting deeper as he slipped into sleep, John was calm, he could stay like this forever.  
Slowly he readjusted himself underneath his friend, hand still Sherlock's hair, rubbing gently . When he was finally comfortable, he allowed himself to slip off into a perfect sleep, filled with the sounds, smell and touch of Sherlock.

The next day it was back to life as normal and John began to wonder if it had in fact just been a pleasant dream. Soon it was time for the first “performance”. The pair had eventually been able to cobble together something which resembled music, good enough to make them pass for vagrant musicians anyway. It was a dull, grey day when they first stepped out, instrument cases in hands, wearing what Sherlock had called “authentic” busking clothing- the outfits were a representation of what may happen if a tracksuit and potato sack were to breed together. But nevertheless Sherlock said they were perfect and Sherlock was always right, so John just grumbled to himself, silently pleading that he wouldn't meet anyone who knew him.  
For once, luck was actually on John's side. They wandered through the streets of London without being noticed by anyone and soon they had reached their destination.  
“Here we are” Sherlock said, gently putting his violin case down on to the pavement, over the other side of the busy road stood a tall build, like you would expect in the centre of the capital city, this was the bank. “now remember,” he said spinning to look John right in the eyes “we are not meant to be seen, and today,” he wiggled a slender finger at the his friend “we observe.”  
Without another word Sherlock turned around and busied himself with his instrument (giving the doctor chance to take an ever-so-heterosexual look over the detective's perfect behind).  
After a short number of minutes they were ready, each armed with their chosen weapon they stepped forth into battle. It began with a duet in C Minor, a piece composed by Sherlock, one of the few melodies which had actually made it on to paper. They then continued their set list with an sonata by Mozart and a rondo by Beethoven; after a variety of other classical pieces, extracts from film music, a Kate Bush song and an ABBA medley Sherlock put down his violin, fixed his shirt and ruffled his hair. A sign that they were finished.  
Quickly, they collected their belongings and marched back to 221B, conversing very little on the way.  
Once back inside the flat, John rushed upstairs to change out of his ridiculous outfit. Pulling one of his favourite oatmeal jumpers over his head, he tried to get his head around what his life had recently become. He was busking, in a clarinet-violin duo with his best friend and flatmate and why? Because Sherlock had said so. And for some stupid unexplained reason, John had agreed. If Sherlock had been a woman he would have said it was love, however, he is not, so there must be another reason. John could never love a man, as he always told himself (and anyone else who made a comment) he wasn't gay; but recently, he was no longer not gay, he was just plain confused.  
He made his way down to the kitchen, immediately walking to put the kettle on. Sherlock was now spread gracefully over the entire length of the sofa, John's laptop balanced some how on his stomach so that he could still see the screen. John made a cup of tea for himself and a coffee for his flatmate. Putting Sherlock's mug down on the table, he reached for the newspaper and used it to swat at the detective's feet until he finally relented and made room for the doctor to sit down. Admittedly John could have sat elsewhere but he lived for the times when Sherlock would gently rest his feet in his lap, such a simple gesture which showed how much trust the tall man put in his friend, no one would be allowed to go anywhere near Sherlock, except John.  
Soon enough, Sherlock's black-socked feet found their way onto John's lap, softly resting there whilst the detective continued with whatever he was doing, almost oblivious of the contact. John flicked through the newspaper for a few minutes, skim reading a number of articles before deciding that none of them were worth him spending his time on. Neatly he folded up the paper and tossed it onto the coffee table, it landed with neat precision just on the edge. He inhaled deeply, suddenly realising that the days work had tired him out; almost subconsciously, his hands made their way down, making contact with Sherlock's feet. Once there his short fingers began to tap out the rhythm of one of the melodies which the men had played earlier that afternoon onto the inside of the detective's exposed left inside ankle bone. John had hardly noticed what he'd been doing until he realised that Sherlock's feet had begun to twitch ever so slightly. He glanced at his friends face, noticing that his brow had now furrowed like he was finding it difficult to concentrate. John continued his tapping, curious as to the effect it would have, only this time he moved his fingers down until they were just above the arch underneath Sherlock's foot. One hand continued tapping whilst the other began to gently stroke the edge of his other foot, lightly running one finger from his heel right to the tip of the detective's little toe. Sherlock's eyebrows were now knitted tightly together, he glanced up at John who played stupid, smiling sweetly at his best friend before staring at the wall. John began to move the hand which was stroking, towards the underneath of Sherlock's foot, as soon as he did this the detective snapped,throwing John's laptop to the floor and lunging on the doctor trying to pin his hands away from his feet. But John was quick and as Sherlock leapt towards him, he shifted position. Effectively the pair had switch places on the sofa, and John now had an even better perspective at which to attack Sherlock. With both hands, he grabbed the tall man's right foot by the ankle, Sherlock tried to struggle free but John's grip was tight, the doctor shifted slightly once more so that he could tightly grip Sherlock's ankle whilst his free hand relentlessly tickled the underside of his foot. The consulting detective was unlike John had ever seen him before, his face screwed up into an adorable half grimace half smile, and he was letting out a sound, which could only be described as, like that of a small guinea pig. His free leg was trying to kick the doctor away, and was of course failing to do so, and his arms were flailing around like a palm tree in a gale. John let himself laugh at the sight of the detective, who was completely at his mercy and looked ridiculous, but as John thought this he let his mind slip for a moment (into more inappropriate thoughts of his flatmate) and quickly the tables turned. Almost before John had realised, Sherlock had thrown himself on top of his flatmate, despite his slender form he weighed enough to keep the doctor at bay, using his leg-which was now free- he moved the table away from the sofa and rolled himself and his friend onto the floor, where he positioned himself with one knee either side of John's stomach delicately resting his weight on the doctor's abdomen. He pinned the doctor's hands at either side of his knees, just to be on the safe side, as he bent down to whisper in John's ear.  
“I win” his deep baritone echoed throughout John (who was trying his hardest not to breathe in too much of his friend's delicious scent and risk completely embarrassing himself).  
John swallowed, sighed and nodded weakly, not trusting his voice. The detective chuckled, the alarming contrast between this and the noise he was emitting under John's power just minutes before made a stupid grin spread across the doctor's face. Sherlock stayed where he was for a moment, breathing softly onto the part of John's neck which he could reach, making shivers trickle down his spine, before the detective sat back on his heels, letting go of the doctor's wrists, standing up and walking from the room, leaving John to lay starfished on the floor, his brain swimming with new ideas.  
Sherlock marched up to his bedroom and sprawled himself over the covers. His hands knitted themselves in his curls and he whispered to himself.  
“Well shit.”


End file.
